


Possibilities

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the alternate possibilities he’d imagined for himself, being Aomine Daiki’s boyfriend was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibilities

The first time Midorima plays basketball at Teikou is also the last. The tryout forms are a hard-won prize from his parents, along with promises (that he fully intends to keep) not to neglect his studies or his music lessons, that he wouldn’t jam his finger or come home too exhausted to practice piano for his allotted hour, provided he makes the team. And Midorima knows he will. Despite the sheer amount of competition, despite Cancer’s low ranking today, he has done everything humanly possible.

Everything humanly possible, of course, does not discount his glasses slipping down faster than usual because of all of the sweat on his nose, bringing half his vision into the blur of an impressionist painting—he’s reaching for the ball and he doesn’t notice a slightly larger boy jump in front of him for it, not until he’s being thrown backward, into someone else, but instead of knocking the other person over he bounces off. His frame’s too light to get much momentum but not light enough to avoid crashing into the floor before he has time to feel properly humiliated. And then the boy who’d caught the ball lands, feet poised to touch wood but meeting flesh instead, and Midorima screams.

Broken bones heal, but Midorima’s shot at basketball doesn’t. Not now, because he can’t play; not ever, because he’s nearly wrecked his chances at being a concert pianist (several months off until his hand is working properly again is something he most definitely doesn’t need right now), and while perhaps Midorima would come to that conclusion on his own it doesn’t mean he wants his parents to make that choice for him. And he would have preferred not to have to in the first place—yes, this is fate; this is what has been set in store for him. Logically, rationally, he cannot blame anyone and yet Midorima still dwells on Aomine Daiki’s foot landing on his hand, the crunch of split bones. Aomine, in all likelihood, did not mean to harm him (or maybe he did; maybe that’s why he doesn’t say anything to Midorima in class, no apologies or kindness or even acknowledgement, although he can see Midorima’s bandaged right hand from his seat). But even if he didn’t mean to, Midorima can’t help but feel a wave of anger pass through him, a brief surge of wanting to inflict that kind of pain, whenever he looks at Aomine too long.

* * *

They graduate from Teikou, finally, and move on to high school. Midorima chooses Shutoku for its academic prowess; Aomine attends some other school (probably some place where basketball is emphasized even more and he can get away with sleeping in class). Shutoku doesn’t have a shogi club and that’s fine with Midorima; he needs to double down on his music studies. And it’s easy to make his life revolve around the piano; it’s easy to immerse himself in fingerings over lunch break, book the school music rooms during club time and go home once the orchestra kids make too big of a fuss. And he forgets Aomine Daiki, most of the time (sometimes he catches sight of his physical therapy instruments among his sorted lucky items and feels a twinge of something in his hand and in his stomach and then he looks away).

* * *

His homeroom teacher brings a doppelganger in with her one day, a visitor from a parallel universe. Her hairdo is different; her walk is different, but she speaks with the same voice. She’s not a teacher, though; she’s a physicist. The girl next to Midorima whispers to the person in front of her that she wonders if there’s a version of herself in a parallel universe who’s already a famous mangaka. Midorima stares ahead and tries not to imagine other versions of himself, but utterly fails. He could be playing a different instrument. He could be tone-deaf. He could be a professional shogi player, some kind of prodigy (if he’s lucky, although he’s certain that version of him would have to follow Oha-Asa). He could still be playing basketball; he could be hitting the net from a few meters behind the free-throw line; he could be raising his hands to block shot after shot, hands that have never been broken.

Midorima very pointedly discards this fantasy, stomping it down into his mental trash compactor.

* * *

The orchestra rehearsal is cancelled; at long last Midorima has the music room to himself again. His own piano is nicer but the acoustics of his living room leave much to be desired, and there’s no such thing as privacy (or quiet) when his sister brings her friends around. He finishes his warmups and sets the sheet music up, flips through the pages until he finds the section that’s been bothering him lately. Finally he’ll have time to puzzle it out, to slow it down and speed it up and figure out what about the rhythms and the sounds are that bother him so much. He starts four measures before, attempting to set up context—and three measures in the creak of the door disrupts him before he can. He’s not locked in enough to keep playing; he whips his head around to glare at the intruder.

He’s not expecting Aomine Daiki, and he’s not sure if he’s more surprised that he’s there in the first place, that he’s followed by a second Aomine Daiki, or that both of them are followed by another version of himself.

Midorima’s hands are frozen; he’s pressing the wrong notes and the dissonance is flowing free through the air and yet he cannot take his fingers off and let the dampers fall against the wires. He cannot look back at the music; he cannot tell these people to get the hell out.

The other Midorima looks at both Aomines in triumph. “I told you he’d be here.”

Midorima frowns; hearing his own voice (only it doesn’t sound like his own voice sounds to his ears but the way it does in recordings and it’s weird) breaks the spell on his hands and he releases the keys. He’s not sure what to think about his other self knowing him this well.

“Sorry for interrupting,” says one of the Aomines.

Now this is a surprise. (Midorima wants to make a comment about not apologizing for his broken hand but he can’t, and what if this is the other Aomine and what if that Aomine didn’t break his hand? Why is his other self hanging around with both of them?)

“Right,” Midorima says. “Well, I’m here. And if you have nothing else to say to me, then I’m afraid I must return to practice. Surely you understand.”

He nods to his other self.

“Actually,” says his other self. “I think we should talk.”

And, well, as much as he needs to practice he kind of does want to talk to his other self—about Aomine, about why he’s here, about who he is (because as much as Midorima’s tried to throw away the what-if scenarios, he can’t help but dwell, hear them over again in his dreams when he stuffs them out of his consciousness).

One Aomine starts forward; the other stops him.

“Alone,” says the other Midorima.

He glances at one Aomine (his Aomine, probably, and somehow it doesn’t seem odd to imply that sort of possession) and receives a nod in return. And then both of them leave, and Midorima’s other self walks over.

He walks differently, a light loping stride that’s somehow got a bit more focus and confidence, and it strikes Midorima as he gets closer that he is in much better shape. Basketball, he thinks, before he can dismiss it—after all, why else would he hang out with Aomine? If Aomine didn’t break his hand, then he’d still be playing and there would be no reason for resentment. Or maybe he did, but this version of himself has more permissive parents and a more forgiving nature. He sits down on the bench, as if he were about to take the bottom position on a four-hand piece and—shit. He hadn’t even thought about playing music with his other self until now, and his other self clearly hadn’t, either; he glances at the music and then at Midorima, and then bites his lip.

“That might be…counterproductive,” Midorima says.

“Yes,” says his other self, reluctantly.

“Why are you here?”

His other self pushes up his glasses, a nervous habit that in that universe he apparently didn’t break. “A parallel gateway appeared to us, to Daiki and myself. And so we went through, and of course his idea was to find our counterparts.”

“You called him…?” Midorima can’t make himself say the name.

“Yes, er, the version of him in your universe told us that the two of you are not…involved.”

“Involved,” says Midorima.

“Yes,” says his other self. “We’re dating. You two barely know each other.”

“He broke my hand,” says Midorima, and it sounds whiny and selfish but he doesn’t care; this is the first time he’s let himself be openly bitter about it since it happened, and five-plus years of anger can’t leave the words alone.

His other self doesn’t say anything; his eyes move down to Midorima’s hands on the keyboard.

“He didn’t mean it; it was during basketball tryouts. He shoved me to the side and I lost my balance and fell and he landed on my hand and—my, our, parents…” he trails off. “It’s petty, but.”

“You miss it,” says his other self.

And then he reaches over to hug Midorima, and Midorima feels like crying. He does miss it; he does miss having basketball in his life, letting the ball fly off his fingers and swish through the net, the feeling of receiving a perfect chest pass, dribbling and blocking and jumping for the ball. He’d been good at it, too, good enough to advance quicker than he’d been doing at piano even with so little time under his belt. He misses being with other people, playing with other people, the intimate concerto of moving together to drive toward the net.

They hear the door again; they turn their heads in unison. Both Aomines push in; one is scowling and one of them just looks somewhat unhappy. The scowling one focuses his gaze on both Midorimas; a smile plays on his lips and the other Midorima makes a noise in his throat.

“Daiki. Don’t.”

That Aomine shrugs, and then elbows the other one.

“Midorima,” says the elbowed Aomine (presumably the one from Midorima’s world).

He walks a little bit closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. Midorima’s other self nudges him; Midorima stands—this had better not be some sort of weird prank. Aomine had better not be about to kiss him to fill some sort of disgusting sexual fantasy that his other self has—but Midorima trusts his other self enough to decide that that’s probably not the case.

Aomine stops in front of him. “I’m sorry for breaking your hand.”

It doesn’t sound forced or insincere; his blue eyes linger on Midorima’s, deep and serious.

“It’s…” not alright, is it? “It’s all in the past. That’s what fate had in store. I’m sorry I blamed you.”

“I mean…” Aomine says. “I understand why you did.”

The tension between them is palpable; Midorima wonders if they should shake hands or if their other selves want them to kiss or something (not that, on a purely physical level, he would mind kissing Aomine right now—and no, he is not going to go there).

“So,” says the other Aomine. “Are you guys okay to hang out the rest of the afternoon?”

Midorima glances to the piano, to his music, and then to Aomine in front of him, still looking at him. He expects to feel another surge of animosity, but it doesn’t come. He glances back to the piano—but sometimes it’s better to leave a piece alone for a few days. Aomine cocks his head; Midorima nods at him.

“We’re cool,” says Aomine.

* * *

It’s weird, seeing his other self like this. Of all the alternate possibilities he’d imagined for himself, being Aomine Daiki’s boyfriend was not one of them. And while that’s a strange abstract concept, it’s even stranger watching himself being so close, so comfortable with Aomine. Lack of significant other aside, he’s not even sure he’s near being that close with anyone else in this universe, even his sister. But the way dry banter flows between them like a river around a small island, the way they catch each other’s eye and seem to always be laughing at some sort of private joke, the way the other Midorima lets himself be touched, all make Midorima not only weirded out that this is with Aomine but they make him feel an acute sort of loneliness. He’s never really had many friends but he’d convinced himself that he didn’t need them, and, well, maybe he doesn’t. But it would be nice to have someone like this. It would be nice to not have to construct a façade in order to get his meaning through. It would be nice to not wonder what someone else was thinking but to know, to understand.

And he can kind of see why his other self likes Aomine so much. He’s a good conversationalist; he can hold his own in an argument (even when he’s speaking absolute nonsense he’ll still go after his point and it’s a little bit vexing but also admirable in its own way). And though he expects the conversation to revolve around their shared experiences and basketball, it really doesn’t—it’ll pass through there, but it never stays too long, and it’s not things Midorima feels out of depth talking about. Both he and the Aomine from his universe can jump in, and both of them are given room to do that.

They walk to the park, and Aomine challenges himself to a one-on-one. The other Midorima thinks it’s kind of hilarious, but Midorima kind of doesn’t get it. The two of them sit on the side and watch as they trash-talk and steal the ball back and forth, trying to outrun each other and outdo each other’s shots.

“I’m sorry. If you wanted to challenge me, too.”

“Don’t be,” says the other Midorima. “That’s always been more of his thing, claiming that the only one who can beat him is himself.”

Midorima bites back a laugh. “Can you tell which one is which?”

His other self nods. “The one who just stole the ball. That’s my Daiki. He’s better.”

Midorima almost blushes hearing those words come from his mouth. The other Midorima catches his eye, and then his face does begin to color. He’s smiling, though; he looks back at the court and his eyes are fixed on his Aomine.

* * *

They leave at the end of the day, walking off still talking about the other Aomine’s victory over himself, the other Midorima telling him not to brag so much and the other Aomine embellishing his accomplishments. Midorima adjust his schoolbag on his shoulder; Aomine looks at him.

“I really am sorry, you know. I mean…you, the other you, is really important to the other me, and he got really mad at me when I told him and he said that’s why you quit and—you know.”

He scuffs his shoe against the ground.

“It’s all in the past,” says Midorima. “If I’m not making the best of things, it’s my own fault.”

“He told me you’d say that. And I, uh.”

He rubs the back of his neck—it’s actually quite cute. Aomine really has gotten attractive when Midorima wasn’t looking, and it’s another thing he’s not sure how to feel about.

“Don’t feel bad. I’ve felt bad enough about it already.”

Aomine flashes a half-smile at him. They fall silent.

“Hey, if you want to come to one of my games sometime, we play Shutoku next week,” says Aomine. “Since the only one who can beat me is me, I’ll win this time.”

Midorima smiles. “I’d like that. “

As much as he’s missed playing basketball, he’s missed being around it, too; he’s misse watching games and analyzing them and even watching Aomine against himself had been fun, impossible not to get caught up in.

Aomine smiles back. “And if you want to hang out afterward, you know.”

“Yeah.”

Midorima doesn’t realize he’s still smiling until his sister points it out to him at the dinner table. And he doesn’t stop then, either.

**Author's Note:**

> for @huongyukapham: aomido + parallel universes + hate to lovers
> 
> (other!aomido will probably return someday so aomine can film his midocest video)


End file.
